


don't go far off

by adjuvantQasida, Niix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Mercy gets captured and enslaved and mistakenly given an aphrodesiac hijinks ensue), (hijinks ensue is a bad way to put that but that's why the archive warning is there), Aphrodisiacs, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Double Agents, Dubious Consent, Empires - Freeform, F/F, I Can't Believe It's Not Infidelity, Multi, Pharah/Mercy/Moira is endgame, Polyamory, Public Nudity, Sex Toys, Slavery, lesbian disaster Moira O'Deorain, please learn from Moira's Mistakes :|, polyamory as a cultural norm, slow burn on the romance + kink fronts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjuvantQasida/pseuds/adjuvantQasida, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niix/pseuds/Niix
Summary: "As the head researcher for Horus and the consort of Princess Fareeha, they couldn’t afford her capture. But Angela hadn’t wanted to run; like an idiot, she’d chosen to stay and try to help the crew. The guards had died protecting her. The only comfort she had was that no one knew who she was. And… as long as things stayed that way, no one would think to use her to as a weapon against Fareeha, or pick her brain for technological advances."The Reaper, Minister of Information and spy for the planet Horus, sees the end of their war approaching. Moira O'Deorain, laboratory denizen and Minister of Genetics, is given an unexpected "gift" who will throw her life into disarray. Fareeha Amari, heir to the throne of Horus, counts down the days until she can bring her consort home. And Mercy, the brilliant mind who will win Horus the war, is captured by the forces of Oasis - but none of them, including her captor, know who she is.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Niix: This fic started out as an idea for a oneshot I told my girlfriend I was playing with, it's gotten... a bit longer than a oneshot. It's been so much fun writing it and I hope you guys like it!
> 
> AQ: I'm pretty sure she spat out 10k words on this in 24 hours after tossing the idea around for a couple weeks. Most of the writing is actually hers. I did the editing/proofreading though so please let me know if I missed anything P: I have definitely chosen to be over-cautious in the tagging, just as an FYI.
> 
> This work is meant primarily as a fun story, masturbation material, and a way to torment Moira O'Deorain, so please don't expect perfection/a proper treatment of serious topics like slavery/straight men. It will update about once a week.
> 
> [We've created a playlist for this fic.](https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWxktUAd_4MqDHD_T14M4vmQ_V9elZXeb)

A day in and Angela was still trying to figure out how she had gotten into this situation.

She had been on board a Horus research vessel, traveling to the Overwatch Omega-R.76 planetary outpost. She’d just needed a few more samples of the rare earths they’d found there. Just a little more, to finish her third prototype of the stealth device. Fareeha and Ana had the other two; she’d asked them to get her as much data as they could. Certainly, she’d be close to Oasian territory, but they barely ever ventured into that region of space. In the past ten years of the war, she could count intrusions near the outpost on one of her hands. Everything would be fine.

So, of course, alarms had started blaring on their approach, and the captain’s voice came over the speaker warning that they were under attack. Two members of the security force had rushed into Angela’s lab, determined to try to get her off the ship into an escape pod as quickly as possible. As the head researcher for Horus and the consort of Princess Fareeha, they couldn’t afford her capture. But Angela hadn’t wanted to run; like an idiot, she’d chosen to stay and try to help the crew. The guards had died protecting her. The only comfort she had was that no one knew who she was. And… as long as things stayed that way, no one would think to use her to as a weapon against Fareeha, or pick her brain for technological advances.

Right now, Angela sat in a cramped crate harnessed to a small, fast moving vehicle, which seemed to be speeding in the direction of the famous spires of Oasis. A small part of Angela couldn’t help but admire their beauty: they shone like beacons in the morning sunlight, one of the greatest man-made marvels across the planetary systems. The spires surrounded the capital city, home of the ministers who led the army that was her people’s greatest enemy. Angela knew nothing good awaited her there. She also knew there was nothing she could do about it at present. _Just have to bide my time._

In less time than Angela would have liked, they sped past the first spire and into the city proper. From the glimmering bars of the crate, Angela watched the city zoom by as the driver made sharp turn after sharp turn, until they entered a fenced section of the city. The vehicle paused as the driver talked to someone monitoring the entrance. A guard (Angela assumed, based on his clothing and bearing) walked around the vehicle and gave her a speculative once over before nodding sharply. The vehicle resumed its breakneck pace.

Dread started pooling in Angela’s stomach as she looked around. The people in this part of town could be categorized into three social classes: the obscenely wealthy, guards, and slaves. All over this area, aliens of various species and sexes were barely dressed and collared, several with chains held by those Angela could only assume were their owners. Again, Angela tried to look around in her crate for any weakness she could exploit. Nothing. She tried not to think on it too much. She knew if she bided her time, she’d be able to escape eventually. She knew very few people who were her intellectual equals; if one of these fools bought her, they would have to let their guard down sometime.

“This one’s the Minister of Information’s,” she heard the guard driving the vehicle grunt. “Reaper wanted her prepped for his pickup.”

“Standard treatment, then?” asked a guard who sounded like he might have a cold.

“As applies to him, yeah,” the first guard said.

They wasted no time unhitching the crate from the vehicle, and the first guard drove off, leaving her behind. The second one - who sounded like he could use a physician more than a slave - cracked his neck audibly, then growled, “come on, then, get her an’ grab her.”

And that was exactly what they did. Angela reassured herself that staying still was the best course of action, and that if she cooperated with them she stood the best chance of getting through unscathed. That lasted for all of about thirty seconds, until guard-with-a-cold turned back to the two men on either side of her and called, “he said _standard treatment,_ boys, quit screwing around!”

Angela had about a second and a half to think, inanely, _oh, no,_ and then one of them was pulling at one side of her collar, and the other at the other, and then she panicked.

 

At the end of it, she got in one good blow to someone’s genital region, bloodied someone else’s nose (the evidence was all over her hand and shoulder), and, she thought, broke a couple of fingers. She also had two more men holding her, as well as a pair of cuffs being clicked into place behind her back as she panted from the sudden exertion. And with that, they started stripping her.

It wasn’t the most dignified she’d ever been in her life. One of them had a long pair of shears he used to snip open the shoulders of her bloodied Helix uniform. Then they tugged the fabric apart, splitting it along her arms and pulling it down to her waist. The shears made quick work of the utilitarian bra she’d thrown on that morning, and she shivered in the cold air. Embarrassingly, she realized, her nipples pebbled the instant they were exposed, and she reflexively tried to cross her arms before remembering that she couldn’t.

The bottom half of her uniform came off in much the same way, one of the guards taking great care to slide the shears between her skin and the fabric, then cutting it down to her thighs. They tugged off each of her shoes, then pulled off the pants.

The thought crossed her mind, at that moment, that only five people had ever seen her in the nude. Her mother, her father, her physician, Fareeha, and Lena, and… and, now, the other two hundred odd people in the slave processing area. For a moment, Angela was sure she would start hyperventilating but the practical part of her mind knew she had to keep her wits about her if she ever intended to escape.

Angela felt eyes on her as the guards dragged her to what looked like a shower area. How were all these people so calm? At the shower area one guard held each arm as they un-cuffed her, then they quickly moved to re-cuff her to a bar that ran above her head before Angela even had a chance to struggle. With a business-like manner they proceeded to hose her down before spraying soap on her then hosing her down again. The water was slightly warm but the open air and water slicking to her skin had Angela shivering by the time they finished.

Two of the four guards dragged her into a building in the left side of the processing area, where cubicles, almost like open concept doctor’s offices (Angela fought the urge to laugh hysterically), lined the wall. Angela dragged her feet, but it made little difference. The two guards were Oasians and had about double her body mass and muscle. That, paired with their likely experience with unwilling participants and the fact that there were two of them to one restrained and increasingly exhausted Angela, made it quick work to get her into the cubicle and restrained to a medical chair. Then two of them headed back to the central area, leaving one guard with her. For some reason, the manner in which he kept checking his watch with an air of boredom made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Futilely, Angela struggled in the chair. Their leaving her with one guard when she had initially warranted four made her think they were confident that whatever was about to happen would take most of the fight out of her. All she managed to do was exhaust herself further, and finally she resolved to stay still and wait. She was honest with herself about how unlikely that resolve was to last.

After a few minutes of anxious waiting, someone dressed like a medic entered her cubicle. They carried a laden medical tray and had the same unnerving bored air as the guard. Angela tried to crane her head to get a better look at was on the tray, but they put it down outside of her field of vision. She could hear the clinking of metal and glass, and the guard who’d stayed shook his head in front of her. “Give her a double of the Eri. She was a huge pain in the ass, and she’s going to a Minister.”

The medic sighed, but apparently complied. A moment later they came around to her left arm with a needle and syringe, which they injected into her right deltoid. A second, larger syringe of liquid followed, with a quick sanitary swab and a tiny bandage slapped over the injection area. Finally, before leaving with their tray, the medic snapped a thin metal circlet around her neck and hooked a tiny chip from it.

She was officially a slave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AQ: this chapter brought to you on a slight delay by minor illness and being bad at being away from my cute gf

Gabriel Reyes had seen some shit in his day. He’d gone from decorated war hero to scarred spy in the heart of enemy territory in the span of five years. Usually, he felt like nothing could shock him or upset him anymore. Finding Mercy in her current state managed to do both. 

He'd walked into the slave bay to be told that she'd been subjected to what Oasian slavers called “standard processing.” Certain that those had _not_ been his orders, Gabriel had ordered the two soldiers with him to hold the foreman and medic involved. Then the foreman, ominously enough, had started whining that she'd been _so_ much trouble, that she'd broken his nephew's nose and his friend’s fingers… Gabriel had to cut him off.

“She's barely 162 centimeters tall and doesn’t weigh 60 kilos soaking wet,” he'd rumbled. “If your employees were unskilled enough to have trouble restraining her, what are they doing in your line of work?”

He'd proceeded to the medical area. It was easy enough to spot her: there was only one guard in the whole space, right next to her chair. He'd seen the collar, and the small naked body, and the blonde hair, and she'd turned her face to him as he approached.

It was Mercy. He remembered her face from their one meeting, six years ago, when she was barely an adult. But now he couldn't even see the blue of her eyes, her pupils were so dilated. Her breath was shallow. She was making little abortive movements, yanking at her wrist cuffs. When he stopped out of arm’s reach she sobbed a little.

“What did you idiots _give her?”_ he snarled.

The story came out, little by snivelling little. The injuries the foreman had mentioned, the nut shot she'd gotten in, the four guards to restrain her, the medic told to give her a double dose of Erixolityne. It was promising that, as he spoke, she regained a little awareness and didn't try reaching for him. He remembered that she hadn't liked men, per Ana. That still holding was a good sign.

The medic’s idiocy was not.

“Tell me,” the Reaper growled at the hapless fool, “what species is this?” (He gestured at Mercy.)

“She’s, uh, minima hominum,right?” the medic hazarded, feeling death near.

“Yes,” said Reaper. “And they are…?”

“I- I don't know, sir. Minister! I don't know.”

“They're _smaller than us,”_ Reaper snarled. “And they have a slower metabolism. Which means?”

The medic squeaked, but couldn't get any other sound out.

_“It means, you shouldn't have given her double the_ Oasian _dose of an aphrodisiac,”_ Reaper growled, and beckoned for one of his subordinates to take the medic away.

 

 

Moira drummed her fingertips against the glass tabletop of the meeting room, making zero effort to hide that she was bored out of her godsdamned mind. The Minister of Intelligence -- coincidentally, the only one of her present colleagues whose company she enjoyed -- was off on a mission, and the Widowmaker, who was currently filing her nails while Sanjay and Doomfist argued, was a lackluster substitute. With only the distracted and the foolish remaining, this meeting was less than useful to her.

As if on cue, the doors swung open and Reaper entered, his coat billowing around him. “Dramatic, much?” Sanjay asked in the overly pleasant voice that grated on Moira’s nerves. She happened to quite enjoy Reaper’s antics. They livened up the place.

Reaper ignored him, instead saying to Widowmaker, “do anything useful?” 

The Widowmaker handed him a sheet of notebook paper covered in doodles of spiders, said (very pertly) _“non,”_ and practically sashayed out of the meeting room. 

Sighing, Reaper took his seat and gave a quick overview of his most recent mission. It was, from his account, pretty uneventful -- just a bad tip about a mercenary ship -- but he made a point of saying, “I’ll speak to Minister O’Deorain after the meeting about aspects that require her expertise.” Moira nodded to acknowledge the request, and they wrapped up the meeting shortly afterwards.

As the ministers dispersed outside the meeting room, Moira tilted her head in the direction of her apartment. Reaper fell into step beside her as she began to walk.

“What I didn’t say,” he told her in a low voice, “is that the tip we received was that Mercy would be on the ship as it passed closest to our territory.” Seeing the sudden gleam of interest on her face, he shook his head. “The results still aren’t good. We caught a woman with two guards who died trying to get her out, dressed for lab work, near a large science bay. She’s most likely too young to be Mercy, but they trashed their computers before we got there, so right now we have no way of knowing. Just a new slave who needs interrogating.”

Scoffing, Moira asked, “and why should I care?”

Reaper stopped and faced her. “Because i’m giving her to you.”

“I don’t _keep slaves,”_ Moira began to protest, but he cut her off.

“You’re the only one brilliant enough and familiar enough with Horus’s most secretive work -- especially Mercy’s -- to figure out if this scientist is a threat. Why were there guards specifically protecting her? Is Helix close enough with Horus to ferry their chief researcher around? I trust you to find the answers to these questions. Plus, she’s exactly your type. Well,” he amended, “the miniature version.”

Moira considered arguing that last point, but realized it would probably be best for her dignity if she didn’t.

“There’s a further complication,” Reaper continued as they stepped into her apartment. “Somewhere between my handing her off to my men and the slavers finishing her intake, some idiot messed up. So not only is our sole remaining lead from this waste of time unlikely to want to talk to us about her work, she’s also been drugged.” He motioned to the door on the western wall. “I put her in here, since it was the emptiest and it didn’t have a preexisting biolock to override.” 

Moira is about to cut him off and point out he shouldn’t have presumed to leave a slave in her space at all when he opens the door and she catches sight of her.

“She was given a double dose of Erixolytine,” Reaper finishes.

She was masturbating furiously, to be expected if dosed with Eri and left alone, but her hand stilled inside herself the moment the door opened. Moira couldn’t discern her eye color due to the dilated pupils and the distance to the bed, but she could see everything else. The flushed, sweat-covered skin, the slight trembling, the way she had four fingers inside herself. She raised an eyebrow at that. 

Erixolityne was incredibly powerful. Any scientific or medical personnel in Oasis knew its effects, at least vaguely. It caused arousal acute enough to cause pain if not dealt with. If she remembered correctly, a dose would last two to three weeks in the average Oasian. As the slave slides her hand out of herself and starts shaking harder, her brain caught up to the rest of what Reaper said. Moira looks sharply at him as her mind did the math and she realized this slip of a woman will be high on an aphrodisiac for approximately two months.

“I already took care of the imbeciles,” the Reaper added in his gravelly tone. He shook his head and continued, “she’s my gift to you. I figure you’re the only one who would be able to figure out if she’s a good enough scientist to be a threat.”

It was a logical explanation, but Moira had a niggling feeling that it was also an incomplete one. Before she could call him out on it, though, the slave on the bed captured her attention again. Tears were silently trickling out of her eyes, and her knuckles gleamed white where she pushed her fisted hands against the sheets.

“What’s her name?”

Reaper shrugged as he moved out into the hallway and murmured, “don’t damage your present.” Then he shut the door, leaving her with the slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming in chapter 3: poor Angela gets some relief (but probably not as much as she would like)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AQ: this chapter brought to you late by my girlfriend being 85% of my impulse control and also out of the country until now. next chapter will go up in 2 days (3/17).

Angela was having trouble focusing. For someone who, from her early teens, had built a career on her ability to do so, it was an _incredibly_ jarring experience. She watched as the man who brought her here - Reaper? someone had called him Reaper - left her with the austere, incredibly tall redhead. Angela tried watching her warily, but the way she could feel her heartbeat in her clit kept distracting her. All she wanted to do was masturbate, and she knew in another minute or two it would cease to matter that she had an audience. Everything felt amplified. Her nipples ached, they were so hard; she was wetter than she’d ever been. Even the sheets against her shins felt almost abrasive. 

The woman took a step towards her, and Angela wasn’t sure if she wanted to run or reach out for her, knew she didn’t have the strength to do either.

_It’s just the drug. I wouldn’t feel this way otherwise._

She was almost shocked when her eyes refocused and she realized the woman had already sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Breathe,” she said firmly, and Angela shivered at how commanding the sound of her voice was. “Breathe.”

Angela took a sharp intake of breath, her body incapable of disobeying. Then the other woman asked, “what’s your name?” Biting her lip, Angela shook her head hard, earning herself a raised eyebrow.

The woman shrugged her shoulders, said “very well,” and reached for her.

Angela flinched away before she realized she wasn’t trying to touch her at all, but instead was grabbing the blanket stretched over the headboard behind her. She had been captured and collared, she hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, and she’d been dosed with an aphrodisiac. These were her excuses, anyway, for why when the blanket was wrapped around her, Angela couldn’t keep herself from starting to cry in earnest.

The woman ran a hand through her hair. She pressed helplessly into her touch.

“Go on.”

Her gaze met the mismatched eyes of her… captor? _(Owner?_ she thought, with something like revulsion.) There was something about the eyes that she struggled briefly to remember, with no success. Without conscious thought, her fingers made their way back inside herself. She was so slick, wetness running down her thighs, and her fingers instinctively curled to press right where she needed them most. The contact was _everything,_ and she felt a wave of (possibly - probably - irrational) gratitude towards the person currently petting her hair in an incredibly comforting manner as she brought herself to completion.

The relief was both instantaneous and short lived, but it gave her a precious few seconds to feel almost normal before her body demanded more attention. Burying her face in the woman’s collarbone, she choked out a “thank you,” then resumed her almost violent exploration of her own body. 

 

 

Moira knew the instant the young scientist passed out from exhaustion. She felt her body go lax against her own and the breaths fanning out over her collarbone become slow and even, a stark contrast to their previously rapid pace. The areas of her suit wet with tears chilled her skin enough to raise goosebumps across her chest as she stayed still for a few minutes to make sure her… _property…_ had fallen into a deep sleep.

She shifted, legs protesting the hours she passed without moving, but she managed to get the blonde woman horizontal and covered in the blanket before her own stomach spoke up in protest of her afternoon activity. Moira pressed one hand to her eyes and tried not to groan audibly. Damn Reaper. She had work to do, and their captive would need more supervision than she had experience giving. She wasn’t happy with having someone new and unexpected in her space, either.

She tried to avoid the idea that she'd enjoyed holding her. She might not have many moral barriers, but she had no interest in being a rapist. The scientist, whatever her name was, would need to get through this on her own.

The thought crossed Moira’s mind that she was going to need to buy lube. She didn't even know if she had any left of her own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why am I so useless for editing our work lmao
> 
> the next 11 chapters are written i just haven't edited them. :|

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which we do earn that archive warning. this is meant to be as consensual as possible given the circumstances but... circumstances

While working in her lab the next day, Moira kept having to fight the feeling that she was being irresponsible. Before sunrise, she’d checked on the scientist, who had been, blessedly, still passed out. She’d left food and liquids in a tray on the bed and set all the lube she’d been able to get her hands on on such short notice (a decent variety all things considering) out on the nightstand. While she’d been in the room, the blond woman had been moaning softly in her sleep. Moira tuned them out, pretending the sound didn’t make her flushed and uncomfortable, and left to go about her day. 

Working through the day had never been an issue for her, especially now, with her experiments on cellular intangibility bearing fruit. After the traditional workday ended, she managed to work for another hour, but her focus was… not at its best. She resigned herself to checking in the woman and getting herself back to her room to read through a peer’s article on Mercy’s newest invention. Since the advance was unrelated to the war effort, she at least wouldn’t have to spend the next few months, day in and day out, trying to counteract or neutralize it.

If not for Mercy making scientific advances almost faster than Moira could counteract them, Oasis could have won the war by now. Moira thought of the young scientist again and shook her head. Reaper’s tips aside, she was entirely too young to be Mercy. And she’d been in a Helix mercenary ship, an unlikely choice for the brain behind most of the materiel that had given Horus an edge in the war. The idea of her actually being Mercy was so far-fetched as to be almost unbelievable. Moira neatly put her things away, locked the notes on her current research behind a double biolock, and returned to the guest chamber where the scientist was being kept. 

About three seconds after opening the door, she realized her miscalculation in leaving the woman by herself. The food she’d left earlier was barely eaten and the bottles of lube she had carefully laid out were strewn over the bed and floor. But that wasn’t what made her heartbeat ring in her ears or her stomach twist itself into painful knots. In the center of the bed, the scientist was curled on her side, two fingers barely moving inside herself. Her eyes were dazed when they looked past Moira, like an animal in a trap who had no idea how it had gotten there, and there were droplets of blood marring the pristine white sheets. 

Moira rushed to the bed, moving on her knees across the mattress, right as it seemed the woman registered her presence. She whimpered and mumbled something that sounded like “it hurts” without bothering to lift her head from the pillows. Deep circles ringed her eyes, and Moira felt another unfamiliar stab of guilt at realizing she’d probably been awake since right around when she left. Carefully, Moira took her hand and removed it from her. Another whimper; another icy stab of guilt shooting down her spine. In a sort of daze, she noted the longish nails, the way drops of blood clung to the fingertips, the eerie way the hand retained its claw like position. _Cramping,_ Moira’s mind supplied.

She decided to deal with the hand first, simply because it was easier for her to. Firing up her left hand, she let the gold coalesce over her palm before laying it over the scientist's delicate fingers. She wiped them gently with the sheet, then moved to cup the scientist between the legs and let her nanites cover the injured tissue. During the process the scientist shifted, moving onto her back and letting her legs fall open to allow Moira’s healing hand better access. There was still that distant, dazed quality to her expression, but those expressive eyes were no longer filled with pain when Moira moved to pull her hand away.

A soft sound of distress left the scientist (Moira really needed something better to call her) when her hand slid away. Before Moira could do much of anything she felt her hand caught in a weak grip and returned to its previous position. “Please.”

The word was soft but it echoed like a scream in Moira’s ears. Please? Please what? The scientist arched into her hand slightly and repeated herself. “Please… please touch me.” 

Moira knew there were so many reasons this is a terrible idea. There was no way the woman could give her consent. But, given the state of her on Moira’s arrival, there was cruelty in denying her. Making eye contact, Moira gently ran her hand over the other woman’s cunt, petting her as soothingly as she’d tried to the day before when petting her golden hair. “Tell me your name,” she said softly.

She thought she saw an infinitesimal light of rebellion in the younger woman’s eyes as she shook her head. Moira shrugged. This wasn’t a battle she had to win, or even really a battle at all. “Very well, I’ll call you Aingeal then.” It fits the woman’s looks, her halo of golden hair spread over Moira’s pillows. Moira receives a look she cannot decipher, and then Aingeal nods, as if agreeing to the name Moira has chosen for her.

* * *

Everything felt hazy to Angela as the redheaded woman continued her gentle petting. It was less than Angela needed, and she knew she had scant minutes before her ability to reason deserted her again. When she had woken, probably just hours after falling into unconsciousness, her entire body had felt scaldingly hot. It was somehow _worse_ than the day before, even if peppered with more moments of clarity. She had been grateful for the lube and, though she had tried to eat the food, the need to sustain herself had not felt as pressing as the arousal burning through her veins. Even when she had started to feel the pain in her hand and… inside herself, she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Her body wasn’t her own in a way that left her feeling anchorless.

Helplessly, Angela arched up into the hand on her cunt. She needed more, knew she’d start begging at the slightest provocation. The petting stopped, but that hand didn’t leave her, and she felt pathetically grateful. 

“Talk to me, Aingeal.” That endearment, so like Fareeha’s roughly murmured “angel” anytime she was in her bed, somehow drove her arousal higher. 

“I need…” She didn’t know what she needed, just that in this moment, this woman with her gentle hands and sharp eyes was the only one who could give it to her. Blindly, she grabbed one of the bottles of lube and pushed it at her, a silent supplication. 

The woman hesitated. Angela found comfort in it; in her lack of desire to take advantage, even when Angela was all but begging her to. Angela didn’t wait, she couldn’t, her rational mind rapidly being subsumed by the needs of her body. Shifting onto her knees, she settled over the woman’s hand, riding it, letting it create the delicious friction she so desperately needed on her clit. Closing her eyes, not willing to see the redhead’s reaction, she leaned forward to hug her torso, holding her where she needed her most, as she lost all ability to form coherent thoughts.

* * *

It took Moira a minute to really register what was happening. She’d admit, to herself, that this is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen - not that she’s seen huge numbers of beautiful women, barricaded alone in her lab, but that was beside the point. The most beautiful woman she’s ever seen was desperately riding her hand, making needy, desperate sounds, and holding onto Moira like she’s the only thing tethering her to the planet.

_Yes, because she’s drugged, you twit._

Moira was in no way prepared for this situation. She did not own slaves, her last consistent partner had been years ago, and watching this captive was more pleasurable for her now than the sex had ever been. Her hand jerked a little, and her knuckles grazed Aingeal’s sopping cunt. Moira had a principle or two hidden away somewhere, but she was emphatically not a saint, especially when another throaty _“please!”_ punctured the silence. 

She shifted her hands around so that she could angle lube (totally unnecessary for anything except her peace of mind) onto the fingers of her left hand before she plunged two of them into Aingeal. There was no resistance at all. A quiet litany of “thank you, thank you, _thank you”_ was the only thing competing with the wet sounds of her hand moving shallowly inside the other woman.

With a scream muffled against Moira’s chest, Aingeal came, her inner muscles gripping Moira’s fingers and her ragged breathing fanning over Moira’s chest. They stayed there for a minute or two, Moira stroking her hair again, before Aingeal started rocking back onto her fingers. She moved her right hand to rest on the other woman’s waist, murmuring, “pace yourself, Aingeal.”

Blue eyes flicked up to meet hers, and the movements slowed. _So obedient._

Moira chastised herself for the thought almost instantly, but that didn’t make it go away.


	5. Chapter 5

The next three weeks proceeded in much the same fashion. Few words, but more intimacy than Moira had had in years. She made it to her lab on occasion, but was generally too distracted to be of much use when she knew Aingeal was waiting for her to return… and what she could return to if she took too long. Another thing she couldn’t help but notice was Aingeal’s obedience. She chalked it up the drug, but sometimes there was an eagerness to obey commands that Moira chose to ignore mostly for the sake of her own sanity. 

She’d moved Aingeal into the suite directly beside her personal one. Part of it was practicality, most of it her desire to _never_ see the sheets with the little blood droplets on them again. (Even if she’d had them removed and destroyed as soon as Aingeal was moved.) When she returned to the suite one day at the end of the third week, there was a look in Aingeal’s eyes she hadn’t seen before. She paused after entering, waiting to see if she would say something. 

Aingeal quietly tilted her head sideways before murmuring, “you’re Minister O’Deorain.”

Moira nodded. “Your cognitive function is improving.” 

Aingeal nodded in return, then seemed to shake herself. “What do you intend to do to me?”

Moira raised a brow. “Considering you’ll likely continue to feel the effects of the Erixolityne for at least another month? The same thing I’ve been doing, most likely.” She paused, part of her dreading the response to her next inquiry. “Unless you want me to stop?”

There was a certain wariness in Aingeal’s gaze that she caught before Aingeal dropped her gaze and broke eye contact. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

* * *

Angela knew she was feeling entirely too safe for someone who was currently in the possession of her enemy. It was just... hard for her to think of Moira as her enemy. Mostly because it took her three damned weeks to figure out who she was begging to fuck her at all hours. She took a moment to berate herself. The hair, the eyes, the glove worn over her right arm, the fucking healing hand... Angela wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so foolish. She wasn’t used to willful blindness. 

It was difficult for her to reconcile the woman who had been keeping her relatively sane the last three weeks with the woman who was effectively her Oasian counterpart, a ruthless scientist with few scruples but many results. Moira healed her when she made herself bleed. Moira’s had her fingers inside her while she begged for an orgasm, for movement, for any kind of relief. Moira has taken apart and corrupted at least four major advances she's made, turning the advantages she gives her planet back on them. Moira has put a bounty on her work four times. Moira has a collar around her neck but barely treats her as a slave - in fact, in bed, she has a distinct feeling she's holding back how commanding she can be - and owns her all the same.

Moira received her as a gift from the Minister of Information, who surely has to request results any day now.

It was that knowledge that convinced her she had to make her escape. Erixolityne or not, if Moira ever found out she was Mercy, she’d never be able to leave. She’d never make it back to Fareeha, or Ana, or Reinhardt, or Jesse. And if Moira found out she was Angela Ziegler, consort to Fareeha Amari…

Angela resolved to escape as soon as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AQ: so I know it's been a bit, but we've moved cross-country, are currently working on renovating the apartment we're going to be living in, Niix found a new job, I'm still hunting for one... there's a lot going on, is what I'm saying. Sorry. It's all good stuff, at least!
> 
> Also, I know between when we last posted and now, there's been an upswing in drama regarding Pharah/Mercy and Moira/Mercy. I wanted to say that we're just not here for it. If you are here specifically to bash a pairing take it somewhere the fuck else and save us both some time. We've tagged this fic pretty clearly, I think, and if it isn't something you would enjoy you are free to avoid it.

Moira wasn’t sure whether to be happy or saddened by the return of Aingeal’s cognitive abilities, and she felt like a terrible person for even thinking it. It wasn’t a feeling she was particularly used to. Science and scientific progress had come before anything else for most of her life; a guilty conscience would only have slowed her down. Until Aingeal, it was surprisingly easy for her to pretend she had always been that way.

As the Erixolityne slowly burned out of Aingeal’s system, she increasingly found herself captivated by the woman revealed. Aingeal’s response to her muttering under her breath about imbeciles was a soft grin, coupled with a clever rejoinder if she felt Moira was less than perfectly correct. She liked the foods Moira liked, and the few times Moira had convinced her to choose their meals, she had been pleasantly surprised by how much their tastes seemed to align. The handful of times she’d heard it, she’d felt intoxicated by her laugh; it had a lilting quality to it that made Moira want to add her own throaty chuckle. Unlike multiple other ministers Moira could name, Aingeal never struggled to keep up with her in conversation even when it came to science and engineering. She’d had more of a chance to travel the frontier, and Moira listened spellbound as she described standing on a mountain range on an unnamed moon, or gazing out into the darkness from the edges of known space.

On occasion she brought home her peers’ papers for Aingeal to read, the one thing she had done to fulfill Reaper’s request. She thought, sometimes, that Aingeal purposefully misunderstood aspects of the research. But it made her feel mental each time she caught herself judging the honesty of a drugged, frequently nude woman who was likely just a hapless Helix scientist caught in the crossfire as Oasis and Horus both tried to land a victory that would, ultimately, win them the war. So Moira said nothing, and they continued on as they were.

* * *

The weeks passed and Angela had no real opportunities to escape. Waves from the aphrodisiac still hit with too much consistency, debilitating her each time, and Moira was too attentive for her to have any real opportunity to escape. She would have liked to be more upset by Moira’s attentiveness, to feel loathing or hatred towards the woman whose work had caused her people so much suffering. It would make everything easier if Moira was the hateable villain she’d always imagined her to be. 

The reality was jarring. Yes, Moira was driven and willing to cross lines for science that few people with an intact conscience would. She was also, somehow, kind. At first, she’d given her a thick bathrobe. A week later, once Angela’s “cognitive function improved enough for you not to destroy them in your haste,” she’d given her actual clothes, things she asked Angela to pick out from a virtual catalogue. She’d brought Angela books and papers to read, offered other entertainment as needed. When Angela cried out, Moira arrived at a run; when she asked for space, Moira gave it to her; when she was in danger of injuring herself, Moira slowed her down and healed her; and even when she needed her touch, Moira hesitated.

Angela had also glimpsed a side of Moira that strongly suggested Moira had seen her own share of suffering. She couldn’t bear to have her right arm impeded in any way. If she needed to touch or hold onto one of her arms, Angela needed to cross to her left side first. The one time Angela brought it up, her expression had closed and she’d murmured that it was “the best way to protect myself.” _At home? From what, in this city far from the war? From who, in your secure Minister’s apartment, meant to keep the world out?_ Moira’s face had made it clear she was not welcome to ask those questions, and that if she did, no answers would be forthcoming.

Moira also slept… poorly, if at all. The few times she’d dozed off while curled around Angela she’d woken up gasping for breath. Once Angela had nudged her awake, then pretended to be asleep because Moira had been crying out and making small sounds of distress. She’d felt Moira’s gaze on her before she seemed to soothe herself by running her hand through Angela’s own gold hair, then left the room.

Angela missed her life. Missed Fareeha’s exuberant presence and her silences both, her laugh and her smell and her awful puns. She missed her lab, missed her friends, missed days spent with Empress Amari and her consorts, the family she’d been adopted into. She knew Fareeha wouldn’t judge her for her choices here. The people of Horus were not monogamous as a general rule; the Empress often teased Fareeha that she was too old too only have one partner. She knew that Fareeha, who was as fierce and loyal as they came, would love her until her dying breath.

Even though she knew all that, she dreaded explaining her conflicting feelings to Fareeha. Ensconced in her bed, she imagined herself looking Fareeha in the eye and saying, “you know Minister O’Deorain? ...Yes, the one who has been a thorn in our military’s side for years. I slept with her for weeks and I’m... fond of her.”

Angela buried her face in her pillow. That conversation might never happen, she might never get home, but she would admit it to herself that she liked Moira, liked the woman behind the politics and the war, and would think about her if… _when_ she was free of this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> ~~yes this type of image is shamelessly copied from faid/redundantharpoons and yes i did make sure it was ok to copy - AQ~~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AQ: this chapter was mysteriously easy to edit, so here's a second one in two days...

At the end of the sixth week, Reaper cornered Moira after the ministers’ meeting.

“Well?” he demanded of her. “What progress have you made?”

“Very little,” she replied sarcastically, brain running a kilometer a second thinking about what she’d tell him. “I was out of my lab for three weeks, taking care of a drugged-up prisoner. All my work is almost a month behind.”

“Yes, but the _prisoner,”_ he replied impatiently. “What did you learn from her?”

Moira’s mind raced. What had she learned from Aingeal? Not even a name. She was very intelligent, had medical training, could keep up with Moira on almost all scientific matters and probably outstripped her on questions of medicine. She was holding back, maybe, when it came to the papers Moira asked her to read, but it was all work she was familiar with. But she was also only in her mid-twenties, surely not old enough to be Mercy, who had been publishing for just over ten years. Moira herself had barely received her doctorate when Mercy’s first paper came out. Aingeal would have been barely more than a child.

But she was hiding _something._ That Moira was certain of. She didn't want to talk about her career, her home, or her past. There was something in there she didn't want found.

Gods help her, she was going to ensure it stayed hidden.

“Not much,” Moira said, bored. “She's intelligent, to be sure, but she's a doctor for Helix. If you want to know about prosthetics, she may have some salient knowledge. But if you were hoping for something more strategically valuable…”

“Hmm,” said the Reaper, drawing out the sound. “A pity. We already have Vaswani’s talents in that arena.” He paused, as if in thought. “What are you going to do with her, when she has no more knowledge to provide you?”

_That's not even remotely related to the timer I'm running on,_ Moira thought. “I'm unsure. It could be she would prove a useful hand in the lab. It could be she sabotages whatever she can touch and tries to run. It will depend on her behavior as the Erixolityne finally leaves her system.”

Naturally, that was when they got the call from Sombra.

“Heeeeeey,” she said, voice tinny as it came out of Reaper’s battered communicator. “So I was just looking in on your toy real quick, Diabla, and I have some bad news for you…”

_“What,”_ Moira gritted out, irritated at the insult to her privacy, the diversions keeping her from going home and seeing Aingeal come another six times, and now the potential of some kind of… _situation._

“Well, she's not there anymore!” said Sombra cheerily. “I’m still running facial recognition scans to find her, but it looks like she left half an hour ago. Just walked out your front door.”

Moira felt her face contort with what she hoped, desperately, was fury. When she turned around and stalked towards the exit of the building, the Reaper saluted her lazily. “Guess we’ll finish this conversation later,” he told her retreating back. It occurred to her, then, that it might be a ruse on his part - that he might already know she had no intention of passing along any information. He could easily have dispatched some lackeys to grab Aingeal for a real interrogation and see if she would be foolish enough to openly move against him.

Either way, the action would be elsewhere. And the faster she ran down her _guest,_ the better.

* * *

Angela had managed to upgrade her outfit to a guard’s uniform and cap but was, frankly, lost. She’d realized earlier in the week that, while the biolock to Moira’s room had an additional print and retinal scanner (much harder to fool), the one into and out of her guest suite only needed Moira’s DNA. A hair follicle had unlocked the door.

She knew if she was caught, Moira would not make the same mistake again. This was possibly her only shot at getting out. And maybe she should have waited a little longer, another week or two, or maybe she should have gone about it a different way, or prepared more - but it was too late, and she had committed. No time for doubt.

The apartments were heavily guarded against outside intrusion. But apparently Oasis kept its unwilling prisoners elsewhere; for the inside, there had been a single guard one floor down. Thanks to Fareeha’s training, there was no longer a guard, and although Angela thought she would probably have some large bruises on her arm, that seemed like a fair trade. There was no other active security that she could see. And that was where her luck ran dry.

She was desperately trying to find a way _outside_ when Moira rounded the corner. In the coldest voice Angela had ever heard from her, she murmured, “and what do you think you’re doing?”

Angela froze, but stood up straight, meeting Moira’s gaze. “I…” she cleared her throat, “I’m…” Then she paused, seeing the pain behind the anger in Moira’s gaze. “Honestly, what did you expect?” 

Moira actually laughed, harsh and humorless. “A good question. Will you come quietly?”

Angela hesitated. Escaping once was one thing. Escaping twice will be another matter entirely. Moira was entirely too methodical not to tighten her security as much as she could. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure she could take Moira in a fight. Angela knew her right hand was a weapon; she didn’t have one of her own, since the guard wasn't carrying one. She also wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to fight Moira, the only person who’s kept her time here from being utter hell. 

Moira stepped forward. Angela stepped back, and an unexpected whimper escaped her throat. The lines of fury tightened around Moira’s mouth and eyes.

“The Erixolityne will kick back in shortly, judging from your facial flush and pupils,” she said shortly. “Unless you want to take your chances about falling into bed with someone off the street, or getting fucked against a wall, I’d suggest you come with me.”

Gods help her, Angela realized as the thought of getting fucked against a wall made her tremble, she was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
